Kneepits and Flattered Sausages!

Boywonder has now completed six months of his first year in school. As he learnt new and exciting things at school each day, his attempts to apply his newly acquired knowledge to his everyday life often had humorous results.

Anatomy –

When encouraging the kids to wash themselves in the bath one night, I reminded Boywonder to wash under his armpits. A short while later he started to wash his legs and as he washed behind his knees, he said to me, ‘Don’t forget my kneepits!’

Geography –

We were on our way back to Melbourne (capital of Victoria in Australia) after spending a weekend in Traralgon (rural Victoria), when Boywonder woke from a short nap and asked, ‘Are we back in Australia yet?’

Food –

Boywonder must think he’s not the only one that enjoys a battered sausage from the local fish and chip shop. When we asked what he’d like to order for dinner, he replied, ‘A flattered sausage.’

Unfortunately, the last week of this exciting first six months wasn’t as amusing. As the novelty wore off, the work became harder and Boywonder realised school is not always about fun and games with his mates. He became extremely distressed when we arrived at school each day. Needing two teachers to prise my son’s hands from my arm was as distressing for me as it was for him. I was glad I had my sunnies on, so he couldn’t see my tears.

After much discussion, we discovered that he loved socialising with his many friends and wasn’t subjected to bullying. He loved playing with the noisy instruments in music, but didn’t like the dance that he couldn’t master. He loved picking a library book to bring home, but didn’t like creating the picture that one of his classmates always so kindly pointed out to him was wrong. He loved group reading with the other three kids that were on the same reading level as him, but hated the large group activity that he had trouble comprehending.

We soon realised that his confidence needed a boost. We also discovered that Boywonder believed that once you got something wrong, that was it, end of the line – a big, fat FAIL.

A week after his distress began, we managed to boost his confidence and help him understand that mistakes and practice are a major part of learning for everyone – young and old.  You can imagine my dismay when I collected him from school this afternoon and asked him if he was excited about it being school holidays and he replied with, ‘Ohhh, I want to go to school tomorrow!’

Whose Poo?

Five nights out of seven, Tomboy gets the urge to evacuate her bowels mid-dinner. I don’t know if she’s making more room in her belly or just wants to escape the dinner table for a while, but it’s a regular occurrence. It wouldn’t be such a problem if she learned to wipe her own bum!

On this occasion she said she needed to ‘go to the toilet’ and left the table. Not long after she disappeared into the toilet (the room, not the actual toilet), she yelled out, ‘I found a poo!’

We thought that she had put off pooing because of her discovery, so I yelled back, ‘Whose poo?’

‘My poo!’ was her reply.

We’re not sure if it was a ‘surprise’ poo (the poo you don’t know about until it’s arrived) or if this was her first ever look in the toilet bowl after doing her business. She gets rather indignant when asked sensitive questions, especially if everyone’s attention is on her, awaiting a reply, so we left that one alone.

And just in case you’re wondering – I got to wipe her bum.

We Were Under Attack!

The week before before Mr T went into hospital to have his salivary gland removed, we were invaded by tummy bugs. These weren’t your usual tummy bugs that laid you out on the couch for 24 hours with your head in a bucket. They were smart bugs that moved with stealth. They camouflaged themselves well and threw random vomit bombs at the children, so each time a child had finished coating their bed in vomit, they felt well enough to run about and play again…until the next vomit bomb hit.

Boywonder fought well and only succumbed for half a day. Great for him; not so great for us. Our expectations for the girls’ recovery were completely misled by his quick recovery.

The next night Tomboy’s first vomit bomb hit at 11 pm.

Miss Flora woke at 5 am – where she was sleeping next to me in our bed – and vomited on the bed. Later that day she woke from her afternoon nap and climbed onto my lap for a cuddle. Without any warning, I – and my leather office chair – were hit with a decimating vomit bomb. With no one in the room to assist in the defence, I tried to calmly yell for help. Miss Flora was already distressed at this strange substance hurtling itself out of her body, and I knew that she’d misinterpret my call for help as panic if I yelled too loud or too fast. I didn’t want to scare Miss Flora and cause the shrapnel to fall on the carpet. She looked around as I called, so I placed my palm on the side of her face and gently turned her face towards me. ‘Keep looking at Mummy in case anymore comes out.’ I didn’t want her to vomit on the carpet, and since I was already coated in it…

I told her to vomit on me!

In between the vomit bombs they were up and playing like normal, so each time we thought it was safe to pack away the buckets, the attack would start again.

Later that day it was Tomboy’s turn again – on the carpet outside the bathroom – two feet from the tiled bathroom floor. 

A couple of hours after we got all three bedded down for the night, Tomboy was again under attack. We actually had Miss Flora sleeping in her cot (instead of our bed), but after another assault on Tomboy we couldn't sleep. Every time we heard Miss Flora make a noise or move, we thought she was going to vomit, so we'd leap out of bed with bowl in hand ready to catch it. Finally, at around 1 am, she made a wet noise with her mouth, so I leapt out of bed with the bowl, Mr T turned the lamp on and our panic woke her. She hadn't vomited, she was just lip-smacking in her sleep.

So then we had to take her into our bed. Mr T moved to the single mattress on the floor and was soon snoring. I spent the rest of the night lying in our bed next to Miss Flora, who has gone back to sleep on her blanket and towel (to protect our bed), listening to Mr T snore. Great! His charge has vomited, so there's a good chance he won't have to get up again through the night, but I'm lying here next to the other one waiting for the inevitable. Every time Miss Flora made a sound or moved I'd sit up in bed and reach for the bowl. I also had to stay close to her to ensure she stayed on the side of the bed that had the towel and blanket protecting it, so I was constantly in the firing line when she was facing me.

After all that, she didn't vomit again!

The tummy bug attack was over…or was it?

Unfortunately, two days after Mr T’s operation I succumbed to the tummy bug. A few hours later Mr T succumbed to it. Fortunately for me, I hadn’t had a major operation inside my mouth. Unfortunately for Mr T – he had.

Depressed Man Eats His Own Finger and it's Mr T's 40th Birthday!

Did you hear about the depressed man that ate his own finger? (Depressed Man Eats His Own Finger) 

I’d read the story a couple of days ago and had forgotten about it until Mr T’s 40th birthday arrived. I thought it was an interesting way to deal with depression and certainly guaranteed him the attention he needed, but what I really want to know is if anyone asked him what it tasted like and how he ate it. Did he slow-cook it, so the meat fell from the bone, or does he prefer his meat medium-rare?

Thankfully, Mr T isn’t about to start eating himself, but after an operation to remove a salivary gland followed by a bout of gastro, almost two weeks of inactivity, school holidays and now a 40 year milestone, he’s not feeling like the perkiest boob in the strip club.

I tried pointing out some positives: he’s married to a younger woman – he’s in his forties and I’m in my thirties; he may feel old, but a particular part of his anatomy has at least another 40 years left in it. In fact, when he woke and said he was surprised he hadn't passed away in his sleep, I pointed out to him that a part of him was awake and rearing to go a good 5–10 minutes before he was, and if he had passed away it would be waving about screaming, ‘Resuscitate him! I’m not done with this world yet!’

At least he isn’t insisting on buying a sports car, getting hair implants or swapping his wife for a younger model. The latter is certainly not an option; he can’t keep up with the one he has now (that may change when she reaches her forties in six months time).

So, how does Mr T cope with today’s depressing milestone?  He offers to shout everyone (who’s at home) McDonald’s for breakfast.

Some may see this as a typical act of depression – eating unhealthy food. At least it’s not his finger! But I see it as Mr T challenging himself. He’s challenging his cholesterol levels, challenging the kilos he lost over the last couple of weeks and he’s challenging his mouth to withstand the pain of chewing a bacon and egg mcmuffin. (I ordered hotcakes as well, just in case the last challenge was too difficult, but I forgot he had to eat excruciatingly slow and ate them for him.)

We all handle life’s events, good and bad, differently. Lucky for Mr T, he has me to hold him hostage, torture him with woeful jokes and force him to smile through gritted teeth.

Please note: Due to the momentous event of Mr T’s 40th birthday, a recount of the vomit battle has been postponed until next week.

Comical Quotes

Boywonder (4 years old) – When asked when and how he got the large bruise on his shin, Boywonder replied, ‘That happened when I was young.’

Me – Wheat and concentrated tomato are just two of the many things that upset Miss Flora’s tummy. After finding a wheat-free pasta in the health food aisle of the supermarket, I turned to Uni Student and asked, ‘Do you think anyone makes a tomato-free pasta sauce?’

Buzzards Attack Slow Cyclist

Reading a news item (Buzzard Attacks Slow Cyclist) about a cyclist being attacked by a buzzard, I couldn’t help but be reminded of my own buzzard-like children.

As Miss Flora grows, her food intolerances continue to persist. Unfortunately, her ability to recognise when others are eating has created a new challenge in managing her intolerances; she wants to eat what she sees everyone else eating. She can still be bought off with one of her rice biscuits or wheat and dairy-free fruit bars, but Boywonder and Tomboy can’t. They’re ability to spot the slightest movement of a jaw trying to chew a lolly or chocolate inconspicuously is inhuman. This has made it extremely hard for me to have a sneaky Cornetto during the day.

Imagine a quiet afternoon, where I’ve miraculously managed to get Miss Flora down for a nap. It’s one of those cold and wet winter days, so Boywonder and Tomboy are snuggled under their blankets on the couch engrossed in a DVD. I look over at them and am hit with an overwhelming craving for a Cornetto. Okay, it’s not really a craving; it’s probably procrastination prolonging the distraction from writing by throwing me a challenge. Regardless, the more I think about not being able to have that Cornetto, or how hard it will be to eat it without Boywonder or Tomboy noticing, the more I want it.

If I move too quickly in the direction of the kitchen they’ll sense the urgency and follow out of curiosity. If I move to slowly and either of them notices they’ll be on to me like buzzards on a slow cyclist.

*Cue Mission Impossible Music* I move slowly towards the kitchen. Once in there I know the chances of them hearing me open the freezer and Cornetto box are great, so I get out a couple of sweet biscuits for them first. I place the biscuits on the bench where they will see them as soon as they enter the kitchen. So far, so good. Neither of them have followed me or noticed any of the noise I’m making. (Why is everything channelled through an amplifier when you’re trying to be quiet?) I sneak the Cornetto out of the box and secret it between my shirt and jacket. Time is of the essence now; the Cornetto feels painfully cold through my thin shirt and my body heat is going to make it melt even faster. My ability to mix stealth and speed is so amazing that I stop for a second to consider a future in action movies. A shuffling sound from the lounge room reminds me of my mission and that I’m really only a little bit faster than a slow cyclist about to be attacked by a buzzard. I reach my bedroom and rip the wrapper from the Cornetto.

I try to enjoy my moment of secret indulgence as the caramel ice-cream melts in my mouth and my teeth crunch the tiny pieces of toffee, but as much as my mouth revels in the sensation, my ears and mind are elsewhere. The act of hiding in my bedroom, indulging in a guilty pleasure with my ears straining to here anyone that might catch me is disturbingly similar to a teenage boy experimenting in masturbation. I try to focus on enjoying the Cornetto, but with every bite of the ice-cream filled waffle cone, of which milk and wheat are two main ingredients, my mind is busy rationalising that one Cornetto filtered through my breast milk won’t upset Miss Flora’s tummy.

Unable to truly enjoy the moment at a slow and indulgent pace, the Cornetto is gone and I’m left with sticky hands. I bury the wrapper in the bathroom bin, wash my hands and tiptoe downstairs. Passing through the kitchen I pick up the sweet biscuits I’d left as a distraction for the buzzards and enter the lounge room.

‘You’ve been so good quietly watching your movie, here’s a couple of bikkies for you,’ I say to Boywonder and Tomboy as I hand them the biscuits.

I sit back down at my desk and start typing while I convince myself I’m more akin to a slow cyclist than a teenage boy.

Mouldy Highchairs and Outrageous Bills...

It was a lovely autumn day in Melbourne today; the sky was clear and we had a top of 22C, so we decided to go for a drive up Mt Dandenong. Boywonder and Tomboy had a lovely time kicking their feet through the golden leaves on the ground and I got some great photos of the autumnal trees and some interesting toadstool and plant shots to use as inspiration for the fairy world in one of my chapter books.

Lunch was a little disappointing. The food was great, but we weren’t entirely happy with the service. I understand that some people cringe when they see a couple with young children arrive at their upper class restaurant; let’s face it there are a lot of people that let their kids run riot through restaurants. But our kids don’t create loud noise and they remain in their chair the entire time we’re in the restaurant, unless it’s to visit the toilet. We’ve often received compliments on how well behaved our children are.

The restaurant we attended didn’t have a children’s menu, but they did have a high chair, so that says to me children are welcome. I shouldn’t have been surprised to see that the straps and the edges of the high chair seat were covered in spots of mould. At least half the restaurants we visit provide high chairs with mould on them and they are usually the more expensive restaurants.

Is it their way of ensuring you don’t return with your children? At first I thought it was because they didn’t have children, but when the hostess removed our plates at the end of the meal she asked Boy Wonder and Tomboy how old they were and then proceeded to tell us how old her children were. Maybe I should’ve asked her if she’d place her child in a high chair with mouldy straps.

Two other tables received complimentary bread rolls; we were overlooked, but so was the table next to us. They didn’t have children, but the woman was Asian; maybe the restaurant was anti-children and racist.

When Mr T returned from paying the bill I asked how much it was. When he told me $136 I sent him back to ask for an explanation. His and my meal with our wine totalled $80, which meant we were being charged almost $30 each for Boywonder and Tomboy’s lunch. I wasn’t surprised to see them apologising for charging us another table’s bill and refunding $46. Needless to say, no tip was left.

But how was the food you ask? It was nice, nothing to rave about and certainly not memorable enough to overshadow the memory of the high chair and bill!

Miss Flora's First Birthday is Just Around the Corner!

We celebrate Miss Flora’s first birthday in a couple of weeks. Due to her food intolerances, we’ve had to find a cake that is free from dairy, wheat and cocoa. Basco do a nice tea cake, cake mix, which still contains a small amount of dairy, but we’re hoping there’s not enough to upset Miss Flora’s belly on her big day. We’ll put a little bit of icing on it so she can make a right mess when she tries to wear it. A first birthday isn’t a first birthday without cake on your face, head, arms, fingers, table, Mummy, and Daddy. I’ll let you know how we go.

No Birthday Shall Pass Without Cake!

Every year Mr T insists that he doesn’t need a cake on his birthday and every year I buy one, but in 2008 we were pretty busy on his birthday, so when he insisted he didn’t want one, I foolishly relented. As soon as I said, ‘Okay, we won’t get one,’ it felt wrong. I believe a birthday should be celebrated with cake and presents, the more, the merrier (cake, presents and people), but I couldn’t shake the feeling that we’d ruined Mr T’s birthday by not including a cake in the celebrations.

It wasn’t long until that feeling became fact. Boywonder and Tomboy were tucked in their beds for their afternoon nap while Mr T and I settled on the couch to enjoy a cuppa and one of the videos Mr T had received as a birthday present. Boywonder was the first to wake and at first we didn’t think anything of the fact he had woken much earlier than he usually did. He walked into the lounge room with his cheeks flushed and his eyes looking very glassy. As soon as I felt his forehead I knew his temperature was well above normal. I left him standing where I’d felt his forehead while I retrieved the thermometer from the kitchen. As I re-entered the lounge room Boywonder placed his hand over his mouth, his eyes bulged and his cheeks blew up like a blowfish. The next few seconds played out in slow motion; I knew what was going to happen next, but also knew there was no way I could stop it happening. All of my brainpower was focused on trying to prevent what was about to unfold, so my mouth was unable to communicate to Mr T or Tomboy. I looked back through the doorway to the kitchen for a suitable container, but there were none. I looked at where Boywonder stood in the middle of the lounge room carpet. As I started to cross the few steps that felt like ten metres, vomit began pouring out of Tomboy’s mouth and onto the carpet.

This stirred Mr T into action, but it seemed all of his brainpower was focused on communication, because apart from sitting up in shock, he was unable to move from the couch as his mouth started uttering incoherently, ‘What the …? Oh, man! What …? How …? Aargh …’

I grabbed Boywonder’s arm and coaxed him to the kitchen as fast as I could, but we still seemed to be stuck in slow motion. By the time I had him standing on the kitchen tiles, he’d finished coating the lounge room carpet in something that looked like chicken and vegetable soup, but smelt like sour milk mixed with rotten oranges.

Now that the emergency was over, we were moving at normal speed and the parts of our bodies that were left without power were once again functioning.

‘This is what happens when you don’t have cake on your birthday,’ I told Mr T as he surveyed the carpet in disgust. I knew from past experience that I’d be the one cleaning it up. If Mr T attempted to clean it, I’d end up having to clean up two lots of vomit.

As fast as Boywonder’s tummy bug appeared, it disappeared. The vomitous explosion was just what Boywonder needed to reduce his temperature and make him feel good again. Despite the afternoon’s disastrous turn Mr T was still in the ‘birthday’ mood that evening and enjoyed crawling about on the floor (upstairs away from the earlier disaster scene), acting the fool with Boywonder and Tomboy.

While they played I ran the bath. The sound of the water thundering from the tap into the bath makes it difficult for me to hear anything more than 30 cm from my ears, so when I heard a loud thud in the hallway, instinct insisted I investigate. I found Mr T lying on the floor, holding his head in his hands.

‘What happened?’ I asked.

Apart from a quiet groan, he was silent.

I moved closer, bent over him and asked again. I was starting to worry until he finally answered me.

‘I spun around on my knees and smacked my head on the stair railing. I think I nearly knocked myself out,’ he explained, still holding his head in his hands.

After a few more moments of silent cursing (the children were also watching and waiting) Mr T got to his feet.

‘Are you okay?’ I asked.

‘Yes.’

‘We should have bought a birthday cake,’ I replied with raised eyebrows and an ‘I told you so’ smile on my lips. 

As usual, I forgot to check the weather for that night and the next day, so Mr T volunteered to go downstairs and find out. Halfway down the stairs Mr T slipped and landed very hard on his behind.

‘Are you okay?’ I asked as I looked down on him, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

‘We should’ve bought a birthday cake,’ was his sad reply.

So from that day forth a new birthday law was passed in our house and it is ‘no birthday shall pass without having cake’. The good thing is that now we sometimes buy two cakes; you can never be too cautious.

Mr T has come a long way in the last two years. He not only agrees to have a birthday cake, but participates in choosing which one he wants. And this year he even went as far as complaining when the rest of us ate the leftover cake the following day while he was at work. Did he really think he’d be able to have his cake and eat it too?